


Only Granted in Fairy Tales

by withthekeyisking



Series: Sladick Fics [25]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Conditioning, Creepy Slade Wilson, Crying, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Extremely Dubious Consent, Extremely Underage, Hurt Dick Grayson, M/M, Master Slade Wilson, Protective Jason Todd, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Slavery, Size Difference, SladeRobin Weekend, SladeRobin Weekend 2020, Slavery, Stockholm Syndrome, Young Dick Grayson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:13:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23775910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: Dick is twelve years old when Slade Wilson buys him.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Series: Sladick Fics [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1307747
Comments: 82
Kudos: 474
Collections: SladeRobin Weekend 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> SladeRobin Weekend 2020 Day 3: War Prize | Omegaverse | **Robincest + Slade**
> 
> So, this fic _was_ gonna be a combination of War Prize and Omegaverse, but I wanted to post a finished product and it wasn't gonna be done by today. So! That story will be coming sometime in the future whenever I finish it, and I'm excited for y'all to read it.
> 
> Enjoy this one in the meantime!

Dick stands in perfect posture, as he was taught.

Back straight, but not stiff. Shoulders relaxed, but not slumped. Hands folded lightly behind his back. Head inclined submissively, but not to the point of pain in the neck. Eyes lowered to a foot in front of the end of his toes. Expressionless, but calm. Serene. Everything about him needs to be at ease, but still perfect.

The murmur of voices fills the room, and Dick lets it wash over him, his mind an empty static. Listening in isn't his place, he's been taught. None of it matters, not to him. Not to the others on sale, either.

Every once in a while a hand slides into his field of vision, reaching out to stroke along his arm, or his neck, or his chest. The material of his thin shirt—pale blue, sleeveless, attached to the simple collar around his neck—does nothing to prevent Dick from feeling the warmth that comes off of them as they touch him. Some of them lift his chin, commenting to each other about the color of his eyes, about his _exotic_ skin tone, and Dick keeps his gaze lowered the entire time, staying silent.

Next to him, Master Cobb rattles off Dick's selling points to any potential buyer that seems interesting for more than a few moments. Dick hears the sounds of pleased surprise (over his acrobatic background, and all the skills that come with it), the curiosity (fluency in two languages, not that he's been allowed to speak one of them in a long time), the admiration over his looks, with various innuendos attached.

Dick knows he's pretty. His trainers have told him that enough. He knows being pretty raises his chances of getting purchased, especially on his first sale. Master Cobb and the others have high hopes for him, and Dick hopes he doesn't let them down. Letting them down always hurts.

He doesn't know how long he's been standing there (these kinds of things made are easier if he spaces out just a little) when a broad, callused hand grips his chin, tilting his face upward. He keeps his eyes down like he's supposed to, and doesn't move as a large thumb brushes across his cheek, over his bottom lip.

"How long have you had him?" the man the hand belongs to asks of Master Cobb, his voice deep and smooth.

"Four years," Master Cobb replies. "We are known for our thorough training, and Richard is one of our best. He would suit any household."

The man hums. "Where was he before you acquired him?"

"Haly's International Circus," Master Cobb says primly. "Richard was an acrobat with his parents before they were killed in an accident."

Even after four years, after countless times hearing his masters and trainers say that, Dick still fights the instinct to yell, _It wasn't an accident! They were killed!_

But he can't say that, and he won't. He knows better. It doesn't matter what he believes. His job isn't to have beliefs. So he doesn't react to the words past the one he can't control (a brief jump in his pulse), keeping his posture as perfect as ever, his expression calm and blank.

The man hums again, a bit different this time, almost amused. His thumb brushes over Dick's cheek again.

"Any behavioral issues?"

"Of course not!" Master Cobb says, tone harder than before. "Richard is—"

 _"No_ incidents?" the man asks, and there's something in his voice that makes Dick swallow, like the man _knows_ something he shouldn't. The man's hand shifts, brushing against Dick's Adam's apple, and says, "Are you sure?"

Master Cobb hesitates, weighing what might happen if he lies (if the man _does_ know, then he could leave or report their operation for fraud) or if he tells the truth (the man could leave this way, too, or ask for a much lower price).

"There was... _an_ incident, three years ago," Master Cobb grits out. Dick's pulse jumps again, at the mention. "One that was immediately dealt with, and punished. He has been nothing but obedient and loyal since."

Another hum. Another brush of his thumb. Dick has to fight to stay still; the people don't usually touch him for this long, only his trainers during sessions, or masters during punishments. He knows that if he's bought, his new master will have the right to touch him whenever and however long they like, but it's still...odd.

And kind of...familiar, maybe. His mama and papa were very physically affectionate people. And Jason...

Dick slams the brakes on that line of thinking, forcibly pushing it to the back of his mind and dragging his thoughts away. No good will come of it. It's in the past, and he is in the now. No dwelling on things you cannot change. He's obedient. There will be no repeats of the incident.

"How much for him?"

Dick feels a swell of relief; if the man had left, Dick would've been punished later for his failure.

He tunes out the conversation about money, completely uninterested in knowing how much he's worth. The man releases his chin, and Dick's skin cools after the touch, almost tingling from the swipe of the callouses.

He tries to adjust to the idea that someone is buying him right now. He tries to come to terms with the fact that he's about to leave a place he's been for four years, to go somewhere completely new and unfamiliar, with an unknown man.

He has no belongings, no need to collect anything, so as soon as the man pays for him and barks for him to follow, he does, walking quickly after his long strides, leaving Master Cobb behind.

The man leads him through the auction room, Dick falling into place on his right side and a step behind, as he was taught. They exit the building and walk for a little while before reaching a car. Someone opens the door for them, and the man slides into the backseat, gesturing for Dick to follow.

The car ride is silent. Dick forces himself to remain relaxed, to not fidget or get anxious. This is fine. This is what he's meant to be doing.

They pull to a stop eventually, and once more Dick follows his new master, entering a new house. They walk through a few rooms, and Dick is tempted to glance around, but he keeps his eyes lowered like he's supposed to, following dutifully.

Soon enough they stop, and the man sits down on what seems to be a couch. Dick stands in front of him silently, posture perfect, and waits. The man lets the silence remain for a long time; Dick can feel his eyes on him, intense and almost suffocating, but does not move or glance up.

"Look at me, boy."

Dick only hesitates for half of a second—they're not supposed to make eye contact with masters—before doing as he's told, getting his first look at the man who bought him.

He's _big_ is the first thing that comes to mind, with broad shoulders and clear muscles and obvious height. Dick always thought Master Cobb towered over him, larger than life, but his old master is nothing compared to this. The thought is...daunting.

He's older as well, Dick can see, with white hair and an eyepatch over his right eye. His visible eye is a clear blue, sharp as he looks at Dick. He seems perfectly in control, sprawled out on a cream white couch, legs spread just enough to feel like it has meaning.

"My name is Slade Wilson," the man introduces. "I am your new master, and you will call me as such. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master," Dick replies immediately, very familiar with this part of things. Of _course_ he would call him master, that was never a question.

"Cobb said your name was Richard—is it, or is it one given to you by the school?"

Dick knows a few of the others at the school who had their names changed to something more pleasing (usually individuals with foreign names, or names considered pedestrian), but _Richard_ was determined to be a respectable name, and so Dick was allowed to keep it. Of course, they never once would dare call him _Dick,_ but that's alright. They're his masters, they can call him whatever they like. Dick's preference doesn't matter.

"It's my birth name, Master," Dick confirms.

Master Wilson tilts his head. "You're leaving something out."

Dick's heart jumps at the implication that he's lying to his master. "It is my name, Master," he says, keeping himself calm. "And it's your right to call me whatever you want."

Master Wilson's lips curve slightly in amusement. "That's true," he agrees. "But for curiosity's sake, what do you like to be called?"

Dick hesitates for a moment. In the last four years, only one person has ever called him— "Dick, Master," he murmurs. "I like to be called Dick."

His master inclines his head. "Dick, then." He crooks a finger then. "Come here, boy."

Dick does as he's told, stepping forward until his knees brush against Master Wilson's own. But his master gestures his forward again, so Dick forces himself to not hesitate, sliding onto the man's lap, straddling his large thighs.

Master Wilson touches him then, hands coming down to stroke Dick's own thighs. Dick feels so small in his grip, the man's fingers almost wrapped all the way around his thigh, and his thin pants do very little to prevent Dick from feeling the heat radiating off of the man.

"I have a question for you, Dick, and you are going to answer me honestly," Master Wilson murmurs, hands still stroking slowly, and Dick nods.

"Of course, Master."

"Good," the man says approvingly. His hands drift around, and Dick doesn't flinch when he grabs Dick's ass, squeezing each cheek in his large hands. "I want you to explain to me what the _incident_ is, the one that required a severe punishment three years ago."

Dick swallows. He's not supposed to talk about it; Master Cobb and the others...But they're not his masters anymore. He belongs to Slade Wilson now, which means everything about him belongs to Slade Wilson. Including this memory.

"There was a boy at the school," Dick begins slowly, quietly. "He was there before me, and was considered a problematic student; he resisted lessons, insulted the trainers—he got punished a lot."

"Alright," Master Wilson says. One of his fingers presses at the crack of Dick's ass, the thin fabric barely a barrier at all.

Master Wilson's hand jerks, and the fabric rips. Dick keeps breathing evenly. He knows what this means, and it's alright. He's been trained for this. His job is to make his master happy.

"Go on," his master instructs.

"We became friends," Dick says. Master Wilson's hands work together to rip his pants further apart, revealing his ass. "In the beginning I didn't want to be there either, but I had more experience with this kind of thing; Mr. Haly never treated us like slaves, but technically the circus owned my parents and me. Jason—the other boy—he'd been born free. His dad sold him for money to spend on booze; that's how he ended up at the school."

Master Wilson's hands leave his ass for a moment, there's a faint click, and when his hands return, the finger that presses at the crack of Dick's ass is cold and slick. Dick jumps, just a little, but settles immediately, and continues speaking like he was instructed.

"About a year after I'd started there, I overheard some of the trainers talking to one of the masters about Jason; they were saying that they'd tried their best but he was way more trouble than he was worth, and they wanted to put him down. But he was my best friend. I..." The finger enters him, pumping casually in and out. "...I didn't want him to die. So I told him what I'd heard, and when he said he was going to try running away, I told him I'd help him."

Master Wilson hums an acknowledgement, and pushes a second finger inside of him, scissoring them to stretch him open. It's uncomfortable, his fingers feeling extremely large inside of him, but he pushes past the feeling.

"The masters liked me by that point, because I obeyed. So it was easy for me to distract one of them. Snuck Jason past the guards, grabbed one of the horses from the stable, and we took off."

Master Wilson raises an eyebrow. "You went with him?"

"I had to make sure he got away," Dick replies quietly. "So we—" His master adds a third finger, and that _burns,_ too much in not a very large space, but he keeps himself calm, remembering it's not about him. He's here for his master's pleasure, not his own.

"We went through the woods, towards the river. But it was dark and the horse got spooked by an animal moving in the underbrush, so the horse threw us and took off. Jason and I, we picked ourselves up and started running, knowing we didn't have much time. After a little bit I could hear them coming, shouting after us, their horses all so _loud._ We reached the bridge and had to jump—we knew the water was deep, it wouldn't hurt to drop and the current would carry us quickly away, it was our best bet."

"Obviously, you did not jump," Master Wilson observes.

Dick shakes his head. "No, Master. The masters caught up to us as we reached the middle of the bridge, where the water would be deepest. They were so close, they were gonna catch Jason and kill him! So I...I pushed Jason over the railing, into the water."

Dick presses his lips into a thin line, trying to push the memory back, the emotions it evokes. He's never had to talk about this before, never had to tell anyone. The masters had obviously known, and had punished him for it quite severely. And that had been that; no one had ever mentioned Jason again, or what Dick had done.

Though they'd certainly kept a closer eye on Dick after that, and he'd had quite a few extra lessons in the months following the incident. But it's okay. He understands. He's a slave, born into it. His role is simply different now than it was at the circus. He liked the circus far more, but his preferences don't matter. He knows that. He's learned.

"They grabbed you," Master Wilson extrapolates. He removes his fingers from Dick's ass, such an odd sensation, and then uses one hand to undo his pants and pull out his cock. It's...large, like the rest of him.

Dick breathes evenly, tries to slow his heartbeat, and does not fight to get away. He fought in the beginning, at the school. When they started teaching him this kind of stuff. It was simply a new thing, is all. It hurt, and he was afraid.

_(It's still going to hurt, and he's still afraid.)_

"Yes, Master," Dick confirms. He hopes the tremor in his voice isn't audible, but given the amused quirk to his master's lips, he doesn't manage to hide it. "But I saw...I saw Jason surface, down below. I saw his face, still breathing, swimming. The current taking him away towards safety. So I'd done what I needed to do."

"How do you know he was heading towards _safety_ and not more masters or soldiers?"

"That was the Ariba River; it travels right into Sector H, after a couple miles."

Sector H; one of the designated _free states_ of their country. The largest there is, really. If Jason got there, then he'd be a free man. He'd be safe and free, like he always deserved to be.

Master Wilson nods. "So I'm assuming you never learned whether or not he got caught, or made it to his destination? If he drowned in the river, or was killed for attempting to escape? Maybe resold and is out there somewhere, still a slave three years later?"

Dick's breath hitches. "I don't know, Master," he whispers. "I like to picture him free."

His master examines his face for a few moments, looking thoughtful. Then he places one of his hands over Dick's hip, and Dick is small enough—and the man large enough—that just like that his hand surrounds half of Dick's waist. He uses the grip to guide Dick upward slightly and forward, allowing the head of his cock to push at Dick's entrance.

"Tell me, boy," Master Wilson says, "are you afraid?"

Dick swallows, trying so very hard _(so very hard)_ to keep breathing, to not focus on his heartbeat thudding in his ears. He wants to say no, to be at ease and strong like his trainers taught him, but he's only twelve years old and _yes_ he's afraid and he can't lie to his master.

"Yes, Master," Dick says quietly.

Master Wilson smiles, a flash of teeth, and his grip on Dick's hip tightens slightly. "Good," he says, and Dick's eyes widen a little, surprised. "I want you to do something for me, Dick."

"Anything, Master," Dick says immediately.

"This is going to hurt," Master Wilson coos, his free hand stroking back through Dick's hair, thumb brushing his cheek, calluses dragging across his soft skin. "And the trainers at the school you come from are very good at their jobs, so they've taught you how to breathe through the pain, how to lock it away, how to act like you're fine and just focus on your master's pleasure. Yes?"

Dick nods slowly. "Yes, Master."

"I want you to forget all of that right now," Master Wilson tells him, blue eye dark with hunger. "This is going to _hurt,_ my little bird, and I want to hear it. I want to _feel_ it. So scream, and cry, and fight to your heart's desire. There will be no repercussions, I want you to do it. Give it your best shot to get away from me, the way you want to deep inside. I'm going to _fuck you,_ Dick, and I want that reaction."

Dick stares at him with wide eyes, lips parted in surprise. His skin is crawling, unsettled for some reason he can't quite explain. It's well within his master's rights to ask anything of him, this is just...it's...disturbing.

And _fight against his master?_ That goes against every lesson he's been taught in the last four years, everything about being loyal and _obedient_ and submissive, not a problematic student, a good slave. And technically this _would_ be being obedient, doing as Master Wilson commands, but it's still...Dick doesn't know if he could do it.

"Do you understand me, boy?" Master Wilson asks, an edge to his voice at the lack of Dick's response.

"I—yes, Master," Dick rushes to say. "I've just never—I—it's—forgive me—"

Master Wilson shushes him, lips twitching in amusement. "When they first started teaching you, did you just take it lying down? Or did you fight and cry and scream?"

Dick remembers. He remembers the fear and the longing for his mama and papa, the way the trainer smiled at him like he was something to devour, the ropes around his wrists to keep him still for what they wanted to do to him. He remembers how much it hurt, four years younger and smaller than he is now, how he bled and it hurt to walk for so long. How they did it over and over again until he understood his place in the world.

He remembers Jason holding him one night as he cried, stroking his hair and singing a lullaby his mother used to sing to him before she died of an overdose.

"I...screamed, Master."

"Yes," Master Wilson agrees, already aware. "So I want you to think about all of that, and let it out."

And then, in one brutal motion, Master Wilson pulls him down onto his cock, not stopping until Dick is seated all the way down.

And _god_ does it hurt, like a hot iron poker shoved inside of him. He cries out, hands flying up to clench at his master's shoulders, tears stinging his eyes. He feels like he's being torn apart, and he sobs, shaking his head.

"There you go," Master Wilson purrs. "Just like that."

He grips both of Dick's hips and slides him slowly back up his cock, but it doesn't hurt any less than the quickness of before, dragging at his insides, and Dick keens, fingers digging into his master's shoulders through his shirt.

Master Wilson pulls him back down, slow again, watching Dick's expression with sick fascination. And Dick lets himself cry, not holding it in like he normally would because his master told him not to, and it's his duty to do what his master wants.

His master, apparently, wants to fuck him roughly, using his considerable strength to lift Dick up and down quickly, forcing Dick down on his cock over and over again. When Dick can actually get the air to make any noise instead of gasping uselessly and soundlessly, he screams and sobs and _begs_ for it to end, babbling nonsensically.

It feels wrong, to act this way with a master. He's not supposed to fight, or beg for something for himself. He doesn't matter, only what his master wants. But now that the gate was pushed open, Dick can't stop.

"Please, please, please," Dick sobs. "Please stop, it hurts, Master _please—"_

But Master Wilson doesn't stop, doesn't even slow, using Dick's small body for his own pleasure. And that's his right, Dick belongs to him, but it's—it—it _hurts._ It hurts so much, more than Dick knows it has to (even though he knows it would hurt no matter what) which means his master is doing this on purpose, is hurting him because he wants to—

"Look at you," Master Wilson growls, and then he's coming, burying himself as deep as he can go in Dick's body.

Dick slumps over him, still crying and now unable to stop, chest hitching and tears streaming. Master Wilson seems content for the moment, letting Dick slump forward against him. And Dick buries his face against his master's shirt and tries to calm himself down, but it still hurts, he still feels broken in half; the permission to cry hasn't yet been revoked, so he lets himself take advantage of it.

A large hand settled on his head, and he jumps in surprise, then whimpers as that jostles the cock in his ass, lighting more sparks of pain up his spine.

Master Wilson chuckles quietly. "Good boy." His hand slides down, settling around the back of Dick's neck, and he squeezes lightly. "It won't always be like this. But for now..." He brushes his lips over Dick's forehead, and Dick can feel his grin. "Well, just focus on the now. You've done perfectly."

Dick closes his eyes and nods. "Thank you, Master," he says weakly.

He wants to go to sleep. He wants to go back to the school, to the masters and trainers he knows, the ones he can predict, the ones who don't take pleasure from the way he cries and begs and screams.

But he belongs to Master Wilson now. He knows his place.

"I take care of my things," Master Wilson tells him, and Dick wonders if he tears pages out of the books he owns and still thinks that counts as _taking care of them._ "You'll see, now that you're mine."

"Yes, Master," Dick says, because he can't think of anything else. "I'm yours."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten years later

Dick smiles at his dance partner, listening to her jabber on about one thing to the next, mostly tuning her out. He's not dancing with her for her stunning conversational skills, after all, but because his master told him to.

He can see Slade on the other side of the ballroom, speaking to the husband of the woman currently in Dick's arms. Slade's expression is congenial, easy-going, but the other man's face is pinched, his stance tense. Whatever they're talking about, he's not happy about it.

Dick's unsurprised; when Slade instructed him to flatter the wife and invite her for a dance, he knew it was because his master had some business to conduct. This isn't the first time Dick's played this role, either—he's pretty and his position as _Slade Wilson's_ personal slave makes him somewhat desirable to get close to. Everyone wants to win Slade's favor, and to spend some time around the pretty little thing Slade's kept around for years now.

Some of them—the very _stupid_ ones—try to start something with him. They always regret it; Slade's very possessive of his things, and unless his master ordered him to sleep with someone else (usually to aid Slade's goals in some way) no one is allowed to touch him. Morons who try find themselves suddenly unable to get work anywhere, or some great harm befalling their estate or family.

That unsettled Dick, the first time it happened. Now it's worth nothing more than a roll of his eyes. He's been at Slade's side for too long to still be squeamish over such things.

The song ends, and Dick releases the wife, each of them stepping back from each other to clap for the band. Dick lowers his gaze and offers the woman a respectful bow; she was oddly nice during the whole thing, actually talking to him like a real person, which is more than most do. He's just a possession, after all. People usually don't even _consider_ talking to him, even if they're dancing. Just a pretty prop to swing around the ballroom.

Dick escorts her back towards her husband and Slade, his hands folding naturally behind his back.

"Ah, Mary," the husband says, something like relief in his voice, when they arrive. Dick catches a hint of a smirk on Slade's face.

"Thank you for honoring me with a dance, Mrs. Jacobs," Dick says, head tilted in a small, respectful bow.

The husband doesn't even glance at him, which is not unusual, as he says, "Right, well. I think we must be going. Mr. Wilson, as always you throw an excellent party."

And then they're gone, the husband dragging his confused wife away as quickly as he can. Dick's lips curve into an amused smile as soon as they're not looking, and then cocks an eyebrow at his master.

"Did you get what you were after?"

Slade smirks back at him and then heads into the crowd without responding. Dick falls automatically into step with him, on the right side and a step behind. He doesn't have to keep his eyes on the floor like when he was a child, but he doesn't look anyone in the face, either; his station might have been risen because of who owns him, but he's still a slave. He's not their equal, and meeting people's eyes and looking them head on is a gift for free men.

They make it to the area of the ballroom where there are tables set up, and as Slade sits down he instructs, "Get me something to drink."

Dick does so without hesitation, heading to the bar to request his master's usual drink, before bringing it back over. He folds neatly to his knees at Slade's feet as he hands him the glass, and Slade's fingers briefly brush over his hair in approval.

Slade doesn't say anything for a while, sitting patiently and sipping his drink, so Dick listens to the music from the band, the murmur of voices through the large room, the peel of a child's laugh somewhere. It's peaceful, in a way. Dick's been to countless parties like this in the last ten years, and everything about it is familiar.

When he was a kid, he never would've imagined ending up in a place like this. Nor had he _wanted_ to, really, but that's beside the point. He was simply an acrobat in a circus, albeit a talented one, and now he's the personal slave of Slade Wilson.

Slade has a lot of power here, in Sector E. He's incredibly wealthy, and people always want to follow those with money, always want to gain their favor and impress them, want to be able to say they _know_ so-and-so-with-all-the-money, like that means they're important too.

Frankly, Dick lucked out in being bought by Slade. He knows there are many masters—rich and otherwise—who are far crueler with their slaves than Slade is with him. Who don't treat their slaves with the level of respect Slade offers him on a daily basis. He's grateful to his master.

"There's a man here tonight," Slade tells him after a while. "Bruce Wayne."

Dick recognizes the name; he overheard two of the kitchen slaves talking about him earlier, voices hushed like they were discussing something they shouldn't be. Apparently the man is richer than God and very outspoken against slavery, which isn't surprising given that he was apparently born and raised in Sector H. He has four children, one of which is a confirmed freed slave, another of which is suspected to be such.

Apparently he doesn't come to slave states often—what anti-slavery man would want to, honestly?—but when he does it's often for business, and he is respectful enough to not stir things up.

"He appears very clean, but I want to press a little, see what secrets the man is hiding when the eyes are off of him," Slade continues. "Men that good are _rarely_ that good. I'll point him out to you, and then I want you to invite him back to speak with me in my study. You'll arrive there with him first." Dick eyes flick up, and Slade smirks down at him. "Press a little, Dick. See what happens."

"Yes, Master," Dick murmurs, withholding the urge to sigh. Slade gives him lots of tasks to accomplish, and these ones are always the most annoying; he has no interest in greedy rich men getting to fuck him just so Slade can figure out how they tick and how best to control them. And Dick likes this one even less—Bruce Wayne sounds like a good man, and Dick doesn't want to find out he's a hypocrite.

Another few minutes of silence, and then Slade says, "There, over by the woman in that godawful pink dress."

Dick cracks a smile at the insult and looks around, quickly finding the woman (okay, yes, that is a monstrosity she's wearing) and then the man standing nearby. He's handsome, Dick notes; tall and sophisticated, with dark hair and a suit that even from this distance Dick can tell is bespoke. There's a lovely young woman with her arm tucked through Wayne's, with different skin than his and something about her posture that reads like contained violence.

Interesting.

Wayne is talking to someone, a boy who looks a little younger than the girl. His suit is obviously bespoke, too, and Dick figures this is one of Wayne's children; his black hair and pale skin matches well, and they're obviously familiar with each other, going by the animated way the boy is speaking and the amused smile beginning to tilt Wayne's lips.

"Alright," Dick agrees, and pushes smoothly to his feet. "See you soon."

He heads off into the crowd, weaving around people effortlessly. When he gets closer to Wayne, he sees the man clue in on him, turning to face the person approaching. Dick wonders what he thinks; the high-quality leather band around his neck clearly states what he is, if the style of his clothing did not. High-class, but still a slave. For this man who hates slavery, what is his reaction to talking to a slave?

"Mr. Wayne," Dick greets, giving a small bow like he's supposed to. He keeps his head tilted slightly downward in submission, but because he's been sent here on behalf of his master, he raises his eyes to meet the free man's own. "Master Wilson would like to welcome you to his party."

Wayne's lips press into a thin line, eyes flicking past Dick and around before returning; Dick knows he won't have spotted Slade, his master already vanished for the next part of his plan.

"Thank you for delivering the message," Wayne says, and though the skin around his eyes is slightly pinched, his tone is gentle.

It's not just the tone that settles oddly under Dick's skin, but the words of gratitude. Obviously he knows the man comes from a free state, one of the largest there is in fact, but it's still incredibly odd. Dick can't remember the last time someone thanked him for something. Why would they? He's a slave, him following orders is what he's made to do. You don't thank a cup for holding your drink, do you?

"My master requests a few moments of your time, if you're amenable," Dick continues, not letting any of his feelings show. "He—"

"Dick?"

His name is spoken shakily, a startling amount of vulnerability in that one word. Dick turns his head to glance at the speaker instinctively—no one calls him Dick except for Slade—and then freezes, time seeming to slow down around him, the noise of the ballroom fading away.

He can't breathe, his eyes going wide, his mouth dry. This—no, he's imagining things, it can't be—

It's been thirteen years since he last saw Jason, but he'd recognize those blue-green eyes anywhere, and his face has barely changed a lick. He's looking at Dick with an utterly stunned expression, something like hope and disbelief in the curve of his lips when he begins to grin.

"Oh my god, it's really you!"

"Jason," Dick says, voice strangled. It's—he's _here,_ alive, free! No collar, no bands around his wrists, the suit he's wearing just as expensive and made-for-him as the pair of men next to him. He's far bigger than he used to be, taller than Dick now, and broader in the shoulders, but it's—it's _him,_ not recaptured as a boy and sold back into slavery. He did it.

 _Dick_ did it. Dick got his friend free.

Jason starts forward, arms going out like he's about to yank Dick into a hug, and Dick jerks back, startled. His heart starts to speed up in his chest as he realizes the situation at hand. Jason is a free man. Not only that, but the son of one of the richest men there is. Dick is still a slave. They aren't equals, they can't hug. The fact that Dick's been staring and meeting his eyes for so long would've had his trainers slapping him silly.

His friend looks hurt and confused, flinching slightly, and Dick swallows past the guilt, lowering his eyes to the ground in submission. No, this is all wrong. This is all so very wrong.

"Mr. Wayne," Dick says. He hates how his voice shakes. "I—my master—"

"Dick," Jason says again, something pleading in his voice.

He's stopped by the other boy, who puts a hand on Jason's arm and says, "Jay, stop. He can't. Especially not here, in front of all these people."

Dick's relieved that someone understands. "My—"

"Then let's go somewhere else," Jason says stubbornly, and Dick wants to scream at him for being so stupid, wants to shake him and ask how he could've possibly forgotten the punishments for stepping out of line, for being a bad slave.

Or maybe Jason remembers all of the punishments he received, and how he kept acting out anyway, because he knew what they were doing was wrong.

But Dick was never Jason. And he's a good slave for his master, he's obedient and loyal. Jason's life is very different from his own, and nothing is going to change that.

"You said Mr. Wilson wanted to speak with me, yes?" Wayne asks Dick, and Dick nods quickly. "Alright, then lead the way. My sons will be coming with me."

Dick hesitates. No, he's supposed to bring Wayne alone, Slade gave him his orders. He can't see if Wayne's a hypocrite—if he'll take a slave up on their offer of free sex—if the man's freaking _sons_ are present.

"I beg your forgiveness, Mr. Wayne, but Master Wilson wishes to speak with you alone."

Wayne smiles slightly, a sad little thing. "Things have changed, however, and there's now something _I'd_ like to discuss with Wilson, something I'd like Jason and Tim present for." He turns to look at the girl, releasing her arm. "Go find Damian and wait with Alfred."

The girl glances between Jason and Dick and nods, slipping away on silent feet.

"Alright," Wayne says, smiling at Dick again. "Please, lead the way."

Dick hesitates, trying to figure out if he can change the man's mind, but Jason's presence has thrown him completely off balance. Suddenly he can't remember any of his usual lines, the things Slade taught him to specifically manipulate men like the ones in this ballroom, the ones like Wayne.

"Of course," Dick murmurs, because he can't do anything else. "Follow me, then."

He leads the way out of the ballroom, walking the familiar path towards Slade's study. The three men walk behind him, and Dick can feel Jason's intense stare on his back. Jason always had such laser focus when they were little, looking at everything like it had his entire mind right on you if you were talking. It seems that hasn't changed.

"You're both going to get him hurt," the other boy— _Tim,_ Wayne called him—mutters quietly. "He's going to get punished for not following his master's orders, and you know it. This is cruel."

Dick can't help but agree.

"It's not going to get that far," Wayne says in reply, words whispered and comforting. "Trust me. It'll be okay."

He knocks on the study door before he pushes it open; he knows Slade isn't in there, but it's habit by this point, and he doesn't have the right to just enter his master's spaces without at least some form of acknowledgement that he's not an equal.

After the three men have entered, Dick shuts the door behind them and strides over to stand by Slade's desk, posture perfect. He has no idea what to do now; he was supposed to make an attempt to seduce Wayne, and that's obviously not going to happen, not with three of them, not with _Jason_ present.

"Typical intimidation tactic," Jason mutters angrily. "Making you wait for him to arrive. Pathetic."

Dick bites back the instinctive urge to defend his master; it's not his place to voice his own opinions amongst free men. His thoughts don't matter.

"That's not why," Wayne disagrees tiredly. "Wilson requested I come by myself; he has other motives for having his slave in a room alone with another man for a little while."

Dick's pulse jumps; it seems Wayne has some brains.

There's a tense silence, and then Jason says, "You mean...?" He trails off, more silence, and then he sucks in a sharp breath. Dick still doesn't look at him.

"No, that's—no, Dick, tell me that's not true. Did Wilson want you to fuck Bruce?"

Dick doesn't flinch at the harsh tone, nor at the phrasing. But he's been asked a direct question, which means he needs to respond. "My master made no such request of me."

Technically true. Slade never _really_ said what he expected to do with Wayne, because he hadn't had to; they both knew what he meant.

The door opens then, and Dick is both incredibly relieved and afraid to see Slade. Slade takes in the extra people with nothing more than the slightest cock of his eyebrow, and then looks at Dick for an explanation. He doesn't look mad, but he doesn't look pleased, either.

"Mr. Wayne insisted on bringing his sons, Master," Dick explains, hoping Slade understands.

"I'm sorry for the intrusion, but there's something I wished to discuss with you as well, and thought they should be present for it," Wayne explains, further taking the blame off of Dick's shoulders, not that that'll mean much when this meeting inevitably goes off the rails.

"Not a problem," Slade says smoothly. "Nice to meet you all. You are...?"

"I'm Tim," the boy says, a little hesitantly. "This is Jason."

Slade glances at Dick briefly, as if to see his reaction to the name (they've met a couple of _Jasons_ over the years, and Slade always likes to see Dick's response), but this time he sees something in Dick's expression that gives him pause. He looks over at Jason, who is tense and upset.

And then Slade starts to smile.

"Ah," the man says. "Now I understand. It's very nice to meet you, Jason. I've heard a lot about you."

Jason stiffens, eyes guarded. His gaze flicks briefly to Dick, who avoids it, and then back to Slade. "You have?"

Slade hums and moves towards his desk. "Oh yes." When he sits down in his chair, Dick folds to his knees beside him as he's supposed to. Slade's hand brushes over his hair in approval, and then settles on the back of his neck possessively.

"I've had Dick for many years now, so I know all about the boy he saved...and what they did to him afterwards because of it."

Dick knows the words are designed to dig, and sure enough, Jason flinches.

"You've done well for yourself," Slade compliments. "You claim a spot in the House of Wayne; quite a long way from the boy whose drunken father sold him."

"How much do you want?" Wayne asks sharply.

Slade pauses. "Pardon?"

"For Dick," Wayne continues, and Dick goes still. "How much to buy him from you?"

There's a moment's silence, and then Slade laughs. "He's not for sale, Mr. Wayne," he says, still chuckling. "Though your _interest_ is noted."

Wayne doesn't react to the implication. "You're a businessman, Mr. Wilson. Everything has a price, and I'm willing to pay whatever you want to have Dick leave here with us."

"Not him," Slade disagrees, sounding amused. "You can't put a price on who my boy has become. He's _not for sale."_

Dick feels a warm glow in his chest at the compliment, Slade considering him priceless. After ten years he likes to believe he's become invaluable to Slade, with all that he's done for him, all of his years of obedience and loyalty, but it's extremely nice to hear his master actually say it. Slade values him, and isn't going to send him away to the first person who offers him a lot of money.

"He deserves to be free," Jason says tightly. "He's not _property."_

"He is," Slade disagrees immediately, still amused. "In fact, he's _my_ property. For the past ten years. Almost half of his life has been sitting at my feet, living in my house, sleeping in my bed..."

Jason goes rigid, teeth baring in a snarl. "Rapist."

"Jason," Tim warns cautiously, but Slade only laughs.

"You're in the wrong sector to be throwing that word around, boy. Slavery is completely legal here, in all forms, and as Dick's _legal owner,_ it is my right to do whatever I want to him. He is my property, my slave. He belongs to me, and the fact that you once knew him doesn't change that fact. You wished to be free when you were younger, and because of him, you now are. But Dick's always been a slave, Jason. He's not going to suddenly stop being one just because you wish it so."

"Dick," Jason says desperately. "We can—we can get you out of here, I promise, we can take you with us, you can be free."

"How about this," Slade drawls, and then squeezes the nape of Dick's neck gently, his voice a murmur when he says, "Dick, this is a one-time offer from me; if you want to leave right now with them, I will let you."

Dick's breath hitches. His eyes snap up to meet his master's.

"You know I'm a man of my word," Slade continues into the tense silence of the room, and Dick does know that. "So right now, if you choose to go with them, then that's it. You're free. They'll take you back with them to Sector H, and I will stay here, find someone else to fill your place. I'll never seek you out, won't fight for you while they officially make you a free man. It's up to you. What do you choose?"

Dick's eyes dart all over Slade's face, seeing nothing but complete truth and promise, and such a deep calm, like he knows exactly how this is going to end, but is fine with either option. Slade's not lying to him; Dick can be free right now, with Jason.

But...without Slade? Somewhere unfamiliar, miles and miles away, his way of life just completely gone? A...free man? Dick can't picture it, can't picture leaving his master, leaving their way of life. This is his home, his entire world. Slade is his _master._ None of them seem to get what that means; how could he leave? He's a good boy, a loyal slave. From the first moment, when Slade told him to cry if he needed to, he's belonged to him. And the very idea of Slade _replacing_ him makes him want to vomit.

Dick looks at Jason, meeting his eyes with ease for the moment, emboldened by what he knows he needs to do.

Jason looks so...hopeful. So _excited._ Like he's waiting for Dick to pop to his feet and rush over to them, all of them heading off to a free state.

"Slade is my master," Dick says, and watches Jason's expression crumble. "I don't want to leave him."

"Dick, please—"

It hurts to talk over him, but Dick says, "I gave you what you wanted thirteen years ago, Jay. It's your turn."

Jason stares at him, lost and a little broken by this decision. "I've wanted to save you all these years," he says hoarsely. "I've wanted nothing more than to find you, and take you home."

Dick leans into Slade's grip. "I'm already home Jason. It's time for you to return to yours."

"He's made his choice," Slade purrs. Jason's gaze snaps over to him, eyes wet and angry. "Now it's time for you to leave. There are quite a few police officers and soldiers out in that room; I'd hate to have to call some of them here to escort you out."

And so they leave.

Dick doesn't watch them go, doesn't glance at Jason or meet the last beseeching look his friend sends him. He just closes his eyes and enjoys the way Slade slides his fingers through his hair.

"Good slave," Slade murmurs, pulling him close, and Dick goes limp with relief at how much it sounds like his master means it.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope y'all have enjoyed these three new fics as much as I've enjoyed sharing them with you 😁 Comments always welcome!
> 
> If you ever want to chat feel free to reach out! You can find me on [tumblr](https://boyblunder-thedarkheir.tumblr.com/), [twitter](https://twitter.com/writertilldeath), and discord (same username as my ao3)


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